What the Birds See

by Sonya Hartnett

  Adrian bridles, shaking his head. “What? What are you gonna do?”

  Paul props a foot on the drawers. “Let’s just say,” he says coolly, “it won’t be doing much slinking any more.”

  Adrian looks at Clinton, whose grinning face falls a little. “It’s only a stupid toy,” the boy says, sullenly.

  Adrian looks back at Paul, his heart sinking to his shoes. Paul is tall and fast on his feet; he is the cleverest boy in the class and the best swimmer in the school: once, on holiday at the beach, he’d rescued a floundering child from the waves. He is aristocratically choosy about his acquaintances, and could have befriended any kid in the class, maybe anyone in the entire school: he didn’t need Clinton. But Adrian has no one except Clinton, and he can’t share. He can’t compete with Paul, who is louder, stronger, smarter, funnier, who has such credentials, who is so enviable. There’s no reason why Clinton should keep Adrian as a comrade, now that he has this glittering alternative – Adrian sees that his friend brims with gleefulness at being chosen by this high-status boy. Adrian is overthrown, and Paul knows it: he stands amid the splinters of destruction and grins, baring teeth like tombstones. The two boys gaze at each other, and Adrian wants to ask the usurper why he’s done this thing – why pick on him, such poor competition – he’d like to know why he’s worthy of such an act of malignance. Maybe Paul wants access to Clinton’s resources; maybe he’s done this simply because he can. “Go get the Slinky now,” says Clinton.

  “Yeah,” snaps Paul, “hurry.”

  He realizes what they’ll do to the toy, understands that as soon as they get their hands on it, it will become rubbish. But he has not the will to resist them – sometimes, sacrifices must be made. If he lets them take something precious from him, they might let him remain their friend. Maybe they will let him sit inconspicuous on the edge. This is what he tells himself, as if jollying along someone much less knowing than he. As he trudges to the house he knows it’s not going to happen this way: he knows he is as routed as the chest of drawers on the garage floor.

  After Adrian’s father had done what the authorities told him to do and taken Adrian from his mother, Adrian had continued to attend the same school he had always gone to, despite now living further away. He had walked to school and home again, while he lived with Sookie; after shifting in with his father, he’d become a passenger on the school’s tubby bus. Everyone – his father, his father’s girlfriend, his father’s parents, who lived in another country – said it was a good thing, Adrian staying at his old school: if his home life must be disrupted, at least his education would feel no hitch, and nor would he know the stress of having to make new friends.

  Then, as now, Adrian only wanted one companion. Tow-headed Damien was generally good-natured, but he had a venomous streak. One afternoon in art class he had grabbed Adrian’s wrist, sending the felt pen careering. “Whoops,” he laughed, “you must be drunk!” He had shaken the felt pen from Adrian’s grip and hit Adrian in the mouth with the boy’s own knuckles. “You must be drunk, you must be drunk!” Damien cawed again and again, while Adrian struggled to avoid the hard cuffing of his hand. His classmates giggled and shouted, quick to take up the cry. “He must be drunk! Adrian’s drunk!”

  The teacher had yanked the ringleader by the scruff, smacking a ruler on his calves. Damien yelled like a bull. The other children snuffled and snorted, shutting up fast. The diversion passed, the ruler welts vanished, but black bruises had been raised: both Adrian and Damien understood that their friendship was done.

  A child often lacks the experience to see immediately what he’s lost. It took a few days before it dawned on Adrian that school is a lonely ordeal for the child who lacks company. He wasn’t a gregarious boy, he couldn’t push his way into any existing group of friends; he felt that, having nothing to offer, they would recognize him as a parasite and treat him with contempt. The reason he felt he had nothing to offer was that, in his heart, he knew he was dull. Nothing about him gave him value: he was ordinary and dull. But at least he was smart enough to know it: he wouldn’t be one of those wretches who lurk the perimeters, who live the hideous role of whipping-boy, lackey, buffoon. He exiled himself ruthlessly, which at least was dignified. He could not be injured if he shielded himself from harm.

  But school is a terrible place for a rejected child. The ringing of the lunchtime bell was enough to cool his blood; the lunch hour seemed an endless desert of time. He didn’t complain or resist going to school but every day he haunted the gates, hoping against hope that his mother would walk by, discover him, and carry him away. She didn’t, but eventually he went anyway. When his grandmother told him he would attend a different school while living with her, he knew she was surprised that he wasn’t a bit perturbed. It is, after all, common knowledge that normal children are upset to leave their friends.

  Adrian has never thought that what happened to him had been cruel – children inhabit an animalistic world, and accept with grace its harsh rules. He never considered anyone to blame but himself, really. But he’d been glad of the gift of anonymity that the new school gave him: at just eight years of age, he had started over again.

  Now, still only nine, he must begin again. Today is Saturday: Monday waits like an axe.

  Eventually he gathers his courage and, breaking one of Gran’s commandments, asks Mrs Tull if he might use the phone. She does not seem to greet the request as the outrage Gran assures him it is: she says, “You can call anyone you like, sweetie, as long as you don’t call me late for breakfast.” The dial is heavy to turn, slow to rotate back to place. Land of the Giants is on telly, midgets in flight from heads the size of mountains. The dachshund stares uncivilly from the couch, its body a readied missile. The tone brrs four times before Rory answers it.

  Adrian is aware of Mrs Tull listening, though she’s looking at the TV. He tries to keep his voice low, beneath the midget wailing. “Is Gran there, Uncle?”

  “No, she’s out. What’s the matter?”

  He twines the cord around his fingers. “Will she be home soon, do you know?”

  His uncle sounds doubtful. “She’s shopping. That takes hours. What’s the matter?” he asks again.

  Adrian searches for a way of saying it. He doesn’t want to offend Mrs Tull. “I don’t feel well,” he whispers. “I want to come home.”

  There’s silence at the end of the line. Then Rory says, “What’s happened, Adrian?”

  “Nothing,” the boy answers. “I just want to come home.”

  Once more, Rory pauses. Adrian hears the dog scratch its sleek hide. His fingers are trapped in the clutches of the cord. He longs for the protection of his home, his bedroom, he would give anything to be rescued from here. His heart is drenched in a paining grief. Uncle and nephew listen to each other’s breathing, and both of them are thinking, There is no use to me.

  “When Beattie comes home, I’ll tell her to come and get you.”

  “…OK.”

  “Maybe she won’t be long, Adrian.”

  “OK. I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll see you soon, all right?”

  “Yes.” Adrian’s voice is hollow. “I have to go.”

  He hangs up; from the corner of an eye he sees Mrs Tull studying him. “You feeling sick?” she asks.

  He nods faintly. “Gran’s coming to get me.”

  She looks at him – looks into him – and it shocks him to realize she knows very well what’s happened in the garage; also that she will never fault Clinton, never lay any blame on her son. She looks embedded in the recliner, her eyes like seeds fallen on the vast facial terrain. She has a muckraker’s reputation, and it occurs to Adrian that she’s probably uncovered every secret thing about him – about his mother and father, about his pariah past. It’s likely that she knows he walks the very brink of belonging to St Jonah.

  Maybe she’s told Clinton this, and maybe Clinton has forsaken him because it’s best to dissociate oneself from some things. Maybe, at school on Mond
ay, his ex-friend means to spread these shaming truths he has learned. The class won’t have time to miss Horsegirl.

  “Tic-Toc?” Mrs Tull offers him the ravaged pack; Adrian shakes his head, hedging for the door. Outside, the Slinky lies in a tangled snarl, its quicksilver perfection destroyed. Adrian goes back out to the yard, to wait, to smile, to laugh, pretend.

  * * *

  Rory is lying in bed reading when he hears the small noise, a sound like the private mutterings of some tiny creature. He lowers the book, listening. In a moment, when the noise does not stop, he gets out of bed, his head cocked like a dog’s.

  In the hushed hallway the sound is louder. The venetian blinds have not been lowered and moonlight lacquers the polished floor. Beattie has long gone to bed; Rory hears the click of the hallway clock, loud in the empty air. He steps quietly on lean bare feet, the cord of his dressing-gown flicking his knees. He nudges Adrian’s bedroom door, and the hinges groan; the mystery sound is instantly stilled, and Rory says, “Adrian?”

  The boy’s voice is crushed. “Mmh?”

  “What’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

  He hears the child swallow air. “I’m not.”

  Rory pulls his dressing-gown closer, feeling through its towelling and the flannel of his pyjamas the night’s icy cold. He probes his way across the shadowed floor to switch on the bedside lamp. He crouches by the bed while Adrian blinks and wipes his eyes. The pillowcase has been used to mop tears.

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Adrian.”

  “…Nothing is.”

  “Was Clinton nasty to you?”

  The boy’s chest rises painfully. In the stark light of the lamp bulb his eyes have a sore, burned cast. “No.”

  “What, then?”

  He sets his jaw. “Nothing.”

  Rory eases the weight off his toes. He wishes he could comfort the child, fight his wars for him, grind to oblivion whatever tragedy has occurred. Instead, he leaves the room. In a minute he returns, carrying with care a large canvas stretched on a frame. The boy has wiped his face with his knuckles, his cheeks look blotchy and swollen. Rory leans the picture against the legs of a chair, saying, “This is for you.”

  Adrian sits up on an elbow, shading aside the halo of light. His tender eyes roam the painting. A fanciful, colourful, serpent-like beast is carving through swirling blue waves, white foam spuming in its frothy green wake. In the sky above, a yellow sun shines; the beast’s whiskered face wears a cunning, waggish grin. Adrian looks at his uncle. “It’s the sea-monster.”

  Rory nods. “Now it’s yours. It doesn’t matter if it’s not on TV. It lives in your bedroom.”

  The boy smiles; his lashes brush tears on his cheeks. “Thank you.”

  “The paint’s not dry, so be careful. You’ll get bitten if you go too close.”

  Again, Adrian makes a weary effort to smile. Rory stands the painting safely by a wall. He turns to his nephew, rubbing his hands against the cold. The child, crowned by light, dries his face with a sheet. “Feeling better now?”

  “Yes.” The boy nods adamantly, glancing away.

  “Don’t forget to turn off the light.” Rory moves to the door. “You’re really not going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Adrian bites his lip. He looks down at the ripples of blanket, hesitating. In a dull wispy voice he says, “Everybody leaves me. I’m not allowed to be anywhere.”

  Rory feels the door handle, cool beneath his fingers. He’d thought it would be something much worse, something he could not fix. “Not everyone, Adrian. I won’t leave you. You can always stay with me, as long as you want. All right?”

  The child’s chin wobbles, he stares fiercely at the bedclothes.

  “No matter what. I promise. All right?”

  The boy nods slackly. “All right.”

  Rory lingers. When he looks at Adrian, Rory sees the assailed and sensitive child he himself once was. He wants to tell his nephew that it’s stupid to be that way, so easily hurt: it’s better to be like a plank of wood, an emotional mule. It’s best not to feel, he wants to say; best to have the nerve-endings cauterized. He says, “Don’t forget the lamp.”

  “I won’t.”

  “See you in the morning, then.”

  Adrian’s eyes dart to him and away, but he’s not going to cry now. “Good night,” he says, drawing up the blankets. “Thank you for the sea-monster.”

  * * *

  Midnight means they have been missing for three weeks. In those three weeks, there’s been rain. The weather has been chill. The mornings have been misted by fog and diamonded with dew. Some afternoons there’s been a breeze that drills straight through to bone. Occasionally there’s been watery sunshine, cream-coloured, pasty, but mostly the days have been cold. It is sad to think of children being out in such weather, and there’s a stirring of strange grievance at the knowledge that they haven’t been given a warm place to lie.

  EIGHT

  A man who says he is psychic claims to know where the Metfords are. This man has had minor success as a visionary in the past, so the police, lacking any serious leads, were prepared to hear him out. Needless to say, they did not want word of this willingness to get around – they didn’t want the public realizing the depths of their desperation. Despite their efforts, however, the story has leaked, escaped and flown round twittering like a canary from a cage. This latest development in the case is relayed by television, by newspaper, by stern radio.

  “Did you hear what that man reckons?” Nicole is swinging on the garden gate, a thing that would break Mr Jeremio’s heart to see. “He reckons those kids are near water.”

  “In water, or near it?”

  “Near it, he said.”

  Adrian snorts dismissively. “Everyone’s near water.”

  The gate lurches Nicole back and forth, shuddering when it reaches the extent of its swing and sailing through the arc again. Her cheeks have gone pink with the streaming air. “Why did you visit my mother?” she asks.

  Adrian is walking on the top of the fence, one foot on either side of the ribbon of wrought iron. The fence is not a wide one, and his balance teeters. “Joely invited me.”

  “Joely’s only six,” Nicole retorts acidly. “What she says doesn’t count.”

  Adrian closes his eyes, rises on tiptoe, shakily holds out his arms. Wind silky as a cat’s coat rubs delicately by him. He’s free, except for the tips of his toes on the bricks. He asks, “How long has your mum been sick?”

  The gate squeals and clangs; he hears the air jolt out of her. “A bit before I was born. A bit more after Joely was born. A lot more after Giles was born.”

  Adrian’s eyes flutter open. “That’s a long time.”

  Nicole’s face clouds. She is bowed over the top of the gate, holding on tight with her hands. “Don’t talk about her,” she warns. “She’s not your mother, you know.”

  “I know—”

  “She shouldn’t be anyone’s mother, if all she does is lie in bed all day and die.”

  Adrian gapes, horrified. “It’s mean to say that about your mother.”

  “How would you know?” Nicole fixes angry eyes on him. “Well, Adrian?”

  Gran has reversed the car nearly to the footpath, and he jumps with relief from the fence. “I’ve got to go.”

  She doesn’t care, continuing to sweep to and fro. Her long jet hair is blown, by the backdraught, across her face.

  When he’s halfway to the car she calls his name, and he stops to look round. She’s moved from the gate to the garden tap and turned the faucet on hard. Water gushes like a solid crystal stake into the gridded drain, and she shouts above the noise of this suburban cascade. “I’m near water!” she cries out to him. “Near water, see?”

  Every Sunday he and his grandmother go to the late-morning mass. Beattie takes church as if it were medicine: stoically, without humour. Adrian gets so bored his teeth hurt. He wears his second-best outfit, so he’s highly uncomfortable. The church is heated as
warm as a grave.

  If he were more sure of his abilities, he could be an altar boy. Many of the boys in his grade are altar boys, and for their efforts get a few coins’ reward. But Adrian is certain he’d forget when to ring the bells, would make a mistake and immediately die, so he’s condemned to sit beside his gran, stifled by the incense and the droning dreariness. Each week he studies whichever stained-glass window looms above their pew – each week his artist’s eye is quick to spot the flaws. Peter’s head is too big for his body, the dove has the neck of a swan. Everywhere is Jesus trudging out his last few days.

  Beattie understands that Rory is unable to leave the house, but she wishes he could make an exception for a weekly visit to church. She worries about him desperately, his body and underfed soul. He is only a young man, just twenty-five: she wonders how he will survive the many years of his future, how long he must exist contained. Some Sundays she cannot shake the aching thought of him from her head; other Sundays he’ll beg a prayer from her and she’ll refuse to give him one, leaving out his name deliberately, his presumptuousness making her seethe. On these days she swears that if he won’t make the effort to help himself, he will get no prayers from her.

  Afterwards Adrian goes to the corner where he and Clinton often meet to wait patiently while there’s chatter amongst the sin-scrubbed parishioners and a courtly but vicious joust is fought between the holy and the gentrified which determines who, that week, will monopolize the priest. But Clinton isn’t standing in their usual place, as Adrian has expected he won’t be.

  Once, Adrian and Rory had watched a movie where an escaped convict, charging helter-skelter through jungled land, had tripped a string that launched a raft of spikes up from the ground. The convict had plunged straight into these spikes, skewering himself from head to toe. Adrian feels as if he’s run into just such a trap; he remembers the pinioned convict had gurgled, shuddered, and died.